


Home

by holy_milk



Series: prompt memes/requests [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Gondolin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-19 04:42:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22005355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holy_milk/pseuds/holy_milk
Summary: Many of his kinsmen abandoned the memory of Tirion after they came to Beleriand; there were new lands and new homes to be built. But he never did.Turgon never wanted to leave Tirion, and he won't part with the memory of home.
Series: prompt memes/requests [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1530497
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [actuallyfeanor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/actuallyfeanor/gifts).



> For actuallyfeanor, who requested "a short piece about Turgon and the building of Gondolin".

The Noldor brought their weapons and their treasures to Beleriand, but he—he brought something immensely more valuable.

He brought his home.

He never wanted to leave Tirion, and even when they set off to follow Fëanáro on his hopeless quest for vengeance—even then, he still thought that he wouldn’t have to. Even standing among the dead on the blood-soaked sand of Alqualondë, he still clung to the hope of seeing the light of Mindon Eldaliéva again.

Sometimes he felt like the memory of his childhood home was the only thing that kept him going. On the Ice, while his friends and followers dreamt about food and the faces of loved ones left on the distant shore, he dreamt about the diamond sand in the streets and the winding crystal stairs shining in the mingling of lights.

On the Ice, when Idril was too tired or too afraid to keep walking, he drew the tall white towers and the elaborate ornaments adorning the King’s palace on the snow, and watched her trace the lines carefully with her small hands.

Many of his kinsmen abandoned the memory of Tirion after they came to Beleriand; there were new lands and new homes to be built. But he never did.

“There’s no going back now,” Finrod reminded him once, when he noticed his friend was only half paying attention to his minute tales of Menegroth and its wonders. “Why dwell on the past when you can put your mind to a better use?”

“You’re right,” Turgon replied, not in the mood to quarrel. There was no point in arguing with Finrod, whose love was always for the white shores of Alqualondë anyway.

He did, however, put his mind to a better use, and once Finrod left for his own new home, he took out a piece of parchment and a quill and he started drawing.

* * *

“What do you think?” he asked with a shiver in his voice.

He stood on the top of the Tower of the King, overlooking all of the newly built city, with Aredhel at his right hand and Idril at his left.

“It’s beautiful,” said Idril, breathless.

But as much as his daughter’s amazement warmed his heart, it was his sister’s opinion that mattered most. The opinion of someone who had spent her youth walking up and down the brilliant roads and green galleries of the old city upon Túna.

Aredhel’s cheeks glistened with tears, and she shook her head slightly when she noticed him looking.

“It’s just like Tirion,” she said softly, a small sad smile on her lips. “It’s just like home.” 

He cast one long glance over the city—his city, his kingdom. Beneath his feet spread roads and walls of stone and marble, and white houses rising from green gardens, and in the distance, beyond the impenetrable outer walls, loomed the Encircling Mountains. But the white houses were painted pink and gold by the rays of the setting sun, and even though the same sun lit the Two Trees of Gondolin, Glingal and Belthil, ablaze among the soft murmurs of the fountains, he could already see their light wane as it drew closer and closer to the horizon.

“No,” Turgon said, “it is not.”


End file.
